


Merry Little Christmas

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, Bonding, Boyfriends, Brotherly tension, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Cute, Established Relationship, Family, Feels, Fluff, Food, Gay John Watson, Gay Lestrade, Gay Mycroft, Gay Sherlock, Gen, Happy, Holiday, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Party Games, Presents, Scrabble, Tension, celebration, mystrade, sardines, tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr and Mrs Holmes insist on a family Christmas, including boyfriends of the Holmes brothers, resulting in a very fluffy Christmas. Doesn't have to be read in conjunction with the 'Two Brothers Holmes' stories, but references them ('Runaway' is referenced once and may be read for reference).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> A bit late, but never mind! This was meant to be posted before Christmas but I clean forgot... also, the show with Sardines was 'Inside Number Nine', which had Steve Pemberton and Reece Sheersmith in it, the two members of the League of Gentlemen other than our very own Mark Gatiss!

“John, remind me again why we're doing this?” Sherlock groaned for the hundredth time in an hour, wriggling about most childishly in the passenger seat of John's beaten up old car. John had chuckled at the question at first...now, he gripped the wheel, utterly bored of Sherlock's nonsense.

“You know why. Your parents invited us all down for Christmas, and it'd be rude to say no.”

“I don't mind being rude!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking affronted. “My parents are used to it!”

John shook his head. “You're hopeless. It's only three days, and today and Boxing Day aren't even full days...it's more like two days. Can you really not do two days with your parents?”

“My parents are fine. It's _Mycroft_ and _Lestrade_.” Sherlock darkly replied, wrinkling his nose and wringing his hands together. 

“Haven't they been on and off since you were a kid?” John asked, grinning slightly. Trust Sherlock, in a relationship with a man himself, to find Mycroft's relationship gross.

“Yes, and that makes it _worse_. Lestrade smacked me as a child!”

A laugh came out of John's lips. “You probably deserved it. What for?”

“I wanted to strike a nerve with Lestrade, so I made some rather homophobic comments. Mycroft enforced the lesson later that day, too.” Sherlock had the audacity to pout. John palmed his forehead for a second, before quickly returning his attention to the winding country road that they were on at the time. The backdrop to Sherlock's childhood was certainly stunning – tall, witchy trees casting shadows across the roads, crisp snow elegantly coating the vast meadows, a few wintry flowers poking their heads bravely through the white carpet.

“How far are we now?” John asked.

“About five minutes. Christ – is that Lestrade's car ahead?”

John squinted forwards down the clear road before smiling. “It is. Excited, Sherlock?” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable. Sherlock responded by punching him lightly in the side of the head.

* * *

 

Mulled wine and fresh cookies made the large country cottage smell just like a cliché, while the real fir tree and classic red tinsel only served to make it picture-perfect for Christmas. Lestrade was happily chatting away with Mr Holmes in the doorway, while Mycroft seemed to be suffering from an interrogation by his mother.

“John! Sherlock! Come in!” Mr Holmes sounded genuinely delighted to see them, and John felt Sherlock soften slightly beside him, obviously having built the occasion up in his head as being worse than it would actually be. As they approached, Mr Holmes grabbed both of them into warm hugs, sending pleasant shivers down John's spine. At his own home, Christmas wasn't a particularly pleasant occasion – Harry had a talent for making people miserable, and his parents were so cold and unaffected that they were unpleasant to be around. Still, he had sent them cards and presents: some wine for Harry (it was all she wanted), a nice set of red woolly gloves for his mother and a new belt for his father, who had moaned throughout the entirety of his birthday that his own one was wearing out.

“Alright, John?”

Lestrade. Whenever there was a Holmes family gathering, he always seemed slightly apologetic that they had to see him there as well as work, despite John considering him a friend and even Sherlock liking him significantly more than he liked most people.

“Yeah, you?”

There was a moment of awkward arm movement during which the two tried to decide between a handshake and a hug, before they ended up sharing a bearhug, the slight excess weight that both carried along with their Christmas jumpers making it a very soft affair. Like John, Lestrade greatly enjoyed being with the Holmes family as his own weren't exactly fantastic: dead father, mother who liked him least out of his siblings, and three older brothers who were all infinitely better off and more successful than him.

At the Holmes residence, it always seemed that Mr and Mrs Holmes were just pleased that he was there. Mrs Holmes suddenly turned from Mycroft, who was blushing after their conversation, towards the new guests. In an instant, she had Sherlock in her arm and was hugging him tightly, while he stood uncomfortably and accepted it. Once she let him go, she and John shared a much more comfortable hug. John was unused to physical affection, as his family were distant and Sherlock wasn't really one for cuddles.

"It's lovely to see you, John! How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mrs Holmes, and yourself?"

Mrs Holmes squeezed his arm and gave him a wide smile. "I'm just wonderful!"

* * *

 

Once they had all settled in the living room and had either a cup of tea or a mug of coffee, Mrs Holmes clapped her hands to attract the attention of them all.

“We thought that it'd be fun to play Sardines...since _some_ people here aren't very good at talking to one another, we thought that it would break the ice very nicely.”

'Some people' was said with incredibly pointed looks at Sherlock and Mycroft, both of whom had the grace and sense to shuffle a little uncomfortably in their seats.

“Who's hiding first?” John amiably asked, glancing around the room. He'd seen Sardines on a TV show a few months before, but it had ended with a character burning a wardrobe full of people down, so that was perhaps not a good reference point.

“How about Mycroft?” Mr Holmes suggested, smiling a little at the tremendous groan he got in response.

“But father, I-”

“But father _nothing_ , young man.” Mrs Holmes interrupted, crossing her arms.

“I really have no desire to do this, though, Father!” Mycroft replied, his usually calm, collected exterior collapsing like a jelly at the thought of doing something he didn't want to. “I don't like enclosed spaces, or getting too close to people, or, or-”

“Come on, Mycroft.” Sherlock told his brother, enjoying the sudden attention on Mycroft greatly. His mouth split into a wide grin at his brother's obvious displeasure. “Don't spoil the game!”

“Make Sherlock hide first!” Mycroft suggested, blushing a little. Mrs Holmes glowered at them both.

“If you don't hide in ten seconds, Mycroft, you'll be _very_ sorry.”

John and Lestrade shared a look of utter disbelief at the immaturity of their boyfriends, but both settled to watch Mrs Holmes, interested to see what would happen if Mycroft refused to hide.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six-”

“All right, all right, I'm going!” Mycroft groaned, getting up heavily from his seat and ambling from the room. Halfway up the stairs he tripped and cursed loudly, making both John and Lestrade laugh aloud.

“Mycroft!” Mr Holmes called, just loudly enough that Mycroft's steps audibly increased in pace.

“Right...go!”

* * *

 

As Sherlock ambled around the house that he knew so well, he considered John. Evidently, his boyfriend was very happy here – he'd barely stopped smiling or laughing since they arrived. Sherlock just didn't understand it: while he loved his parents very deeply, the home was too involved, too much for him. He could cope with it in very small doses, but it drove him insane. They expected him to behave like the normal, stupid people that surrounded him every day, which was a surprise seeing as his mother was very deeply intelligent, and his father wasn't stupid, either.

“Hey, watch it Sherlock!”

Graham-George-Gregory. Lestrade. He had just walked directly into his chest. Not worthy of response. Stepping around him, Sherlock pushed open the door to one of the spare rooms, which contained the _best_ hiding place in the house. A vast oak wardrobe, which would easily fit six or seven people. Sherlock didn't know it from playing Sardines, or Hide and Seek – he knew it from hiding in it as a child, trying to sneakily escape punishment. It had never worked. Closing the door to the room softly behind him, he yanked open the wardrobe and groaned when he saw Mycroft stood there, flicking through his phone. Mycroft looked up and rolled his eyebrows.

“Get in then, Sherlock.”

Ah yes, the worst part of Sardines. Everyone having to join the person hiding. Sighing so heavily that one of the clothes hangers rocked, Sherlock got in, before closing the wardrobe doors with a mighty bang meant to attract the attention of the other players and end the game quickly. To his disgust, there were no running footsteps at the loud noise, and he was forced to settle in.

“Bit of an obvious hiding place, Mycroft.” Sherlock commented, not bothering to lower his voice. If it made the game end sooner, he'd shout at the top of his voice.

“Only for you and I. We're the only ones who ever had to hide.”

A memory suddenly came into Sherlock's head, making his nose wrinkle. “Do you remember when Mother's cousin Marcus came, along with his family?”

Mycroft snorted. “Of course I do. I had to share your bedroom for two weeks.”

“Do you remember that the daughters forced us into _endless_ games of Hide and Seek?”

Mycroft nodded slightly, still focused on his phone. “Then they let me and you be the seekers.”

Sherlock gave a little laugh. “And they hid for two whole _hours_ before checking why we hadn't found them!”

Both brothers laughed for a moment, before settling into a silence slightly less uncomfortable than it had been a minute before.

* * *

 

Greg had been wandering aimlessly around the house for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably only about ten minutes. The cottage, which looked quite quaint from the outside, was huge and rambling inside, with some odd, tiny rooms that seemed to serve no purpose except to take up the space in the wall between other rooms and other vast, sprawling rooms which were utterly empty. He'd even stumbled across a library bigger than the one in the village he'd grown up in, with shelf after shelf of books and even a reference sheet pinned on the wall. It would take _forever_ for them all to find one another in this stupid game.

He liked it, though.

In his own family, they never played games. Occasionally, as a child, his father would start up a game of Scrabble, and then would berate him for his word choices and how he chose to play his letters in the game. Then, his father had died. Hurrah.

“Hi, Greg.”

John. He liked John tremendously, and it was odd to consider that they were, what...brothers-in-law? Sort of? He wasn't entirely sure whether they were actually brothers in law or what, but he liked the thought. If he and Mycroft married, Sherlock would legally be his brother-in-law. THAT was a terrifying thought. Selecting a door at random, Greg opened it and entered the room, glad to find that it wasn't just another random, empty one. There was a vast wardrobe against one wall, which seemed like a perfect hiding place. John had followed him, and walked forwards to the wardrobe straight away, pushing it open. There stood Mycroft and Sherlock, each silently focusing on their phones.

“And so there were four.” commented John.

* * *

 

It had been Mr Holmes's idea to play Sardines, and upon suggesting it to Mrs Holmes she had clapped and instantly agreed.

“They'll _have_ to play nicely if they're stuck together in a tiny space.” she replied, half-sarcastic as she imagined Sherlock and Mycroft, plus a small space. She privately hoped that neither of them would be in an annoying mood – if they were, they'd bring the house down around them and the game would be over in seconds.

“Do you think we should go and look yet, dear?” Mr Holmes asked his wife, as the two sat drinking their tea. Getting all four of them together was the plan, to force them to communicate and work out their differences.

“Another ten minutes.” Mrs Holmes replied, smiling. “We know where they'll be, so what's the hurry?”

Mr Holmes chuckled and kissed his wife. “This will either make them all settle down or will lead to catastrophe.”

“Just like most things you suggest.” Mrs Holmes smiled back, hugging her husband tightly. “Hopefully the former.”

* * *

 

Even with four of them in the wardrobe, which was the size of a very small room and had no clothes hanging in it, there was space. Greg leant against the back wall, murmuring to Mycroft, while John squashed in beside Sherlock. They weren't all silent, as such, just staying very separate.

“So, John, how did you manage to drag Sherlock away from any potential cases?” Greg asked, hoping to break the tension.

“I didn't – his mum convinced him, and she did a better job in five minutes than I could do in five hours.”

Greg laughed. “You two are incredibly lucky to have a mum like the one you do. She's brilliant. She bakes cookies and makes mulled wine, for god's sake.”

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock responded, making John and Greg's slightly forced chatter die away quickly. However, John tried again.

“Your dad is great, too. I don't know how two loving, caring people like those produced these two.”

Sherlock finally glanced up. “I assume from the open nature of your conversation you want Mycroft and I to join in.”

“That'd be helpful, yeah.” Greg replied, before prodding Mycroft in the ribs. “Why did you hide here?”

“I thought that it would be a good hiding place. Apparently not, as I was found by you all within fifteen minutes.” Mycroft spoke with a resigned tone, silently admitting to himself that he was going to be stuck in the conversation now, forced to give opinions.

“Odd that mother and father aren't here, yet. They've lived in the house far longer than any of us.” Sherlock commented, raising his eyebrows.

“Perhaps they're working from the top downwards, or something.” John suggested, far less suspiciously than his boyfriend. Mycroft suddenly gave an incredibly heavy sigh.

“What's up?” Greg instantly asked, looking concerned. While he was used to his boyfriend being drama queen extraordinaire, it was unlike him to be quite so pathetic about it.

“Isn't it obvious?” he asked, glancing at the confused faces of Greg and John, and then at the dawning realisation on Sherlock's face. “They designed this. They wanted the four of us to be forced to 'make friends', as if we were children. They'll probably come along soon enough.”

“When did you realise this?” John asked, rolling his eyes that Mycroft would have chosen to keep that to himself.

“Approximately fifteen seconds after Mother suggested Sardines – we're not a Sardines family, more of a Scrabble one.”

Before anyone could respond, the wardrobe door swung open to reveal both Mr and Mrs Holmes, both smiling. They had been listening for a while, and evidently their ploy had worked, even just slightly.

* * *

 

The meal that the six ate later that night was a tradition of the Holmes family. The table had to be set with red candles, and all of the foods were red. Mr Holmes had, in recent years, even started taping red tissue paper over the lightbulbs to give the dining room a red glow. To any outsider, it looked like the perfect tradition, a funny, slightly silly meal to get everyone in the mood. None of the Holmes family were exactly sure when it started, though Mycroft could remember Christmas Eve's without the red meal, as it was referred to...but it was a fast tradition. The table was heaving with red food – stuffed tomatoes, pizza, bowls of strawberries and cherries, red velvet cake, prawns with cocktail sauce, stuffed peppers, sausages (“They're pinkish, and pink is close to red!” Seven year old Sherlock had argued, and thus they had become a regular), pink lemonade, red wine, cherry bakewell tart and many more...it was tremendous.

“Mr Holmes, you are a _god_.” John groaned as he observed the table. “Why didn't Sherlock inherit your cooking talent?”

Mr Holmes chuckled. “He did – he's just lazy!”

Mycroft and John immediately began to pile up their plates once they had sat down, each the 'foodie' in their relationship and each greatly excited by the masses of delicious foods in front of them. Mrs Holmes was eager, too, filling her plate with her particular favourites. Sherlock, Greg and Mr Holmes, the slightly less food obsessed members of the family, waited until their loved ones had gotten their red plates before tucking in themselves.

“So, the timetable for tomorrow.” Mrs Holmes brought up after finishing her first large wedge of bacon pizza. This elicited groans from her sons, and interested looks from the other three males around the table, even Mr Holmes, who was well used to his wife's planning.

“Mother, it's the same _every year_. You don't need to go through it!” Sherlock exclaimed, before selecting a glossy crimson cherry and eating it delicately, peeling the sweet flesh away from the pip with his white teeth.

“In case you hadn't noticed, Sherlock Holmes, there are two people at the table who haven't spent Christmas here before, and you two haven't been here for the past couple of years either!” Mrs Holmes lightly scolded, a smile on her face. “We get up at seven, and have half an hour to wash and get dressed. Then, there's a photograph on the stairs. From half seven until eight, we have breakfast, which I will prepare. Eight until nine is present opening – and  _ yes _ Sherlock, I know that you rip yours open in two minutes flat, but other people like to take their time and thank people. We've already prepared the Christmas dinner, and cooking will commence at nine. Nine until one is time for games – YES, Sherlock, I know you don't like playing games, but that's tough. You destroy us all at Scrabble anyway, so don't pretend you don't get a bit of satisfaction out of that. One until two is dinner, with clearing away being two until half two. A Christmas film from half two until four (give or take a few minutes), before more games until six, after which it is up to what people want to do.”

Greg whistled. “You're incredibly organised, Mrs Holmes.”

“Too organised.” Sherlock grumbled. “What if something interesting comes up, or I get a call from London?”

“In case you hadn't noticed, Sherlock, the inspector that you work for is sat across from you eating a red velvet cupcake. I don't think you're going to be bothered.” Mrs Holmes spoke just a little sharply, getting tired of her youngest being, as Mr Holmes sometimes privately called him, a little shit.

“What about Mrs Hudson? What if the flat burns down?”

“You're being ridiculous, Sherlock.” Mr Holmes firmly told his son. “Now eat your bloody red food and enjoy it.”

* * *

 

To everyone, the day was a success. Despite Mycroft being very grumpy first thing in the morning (which even Greg found irritating rather than cute), they were all gathered and ready at the appropriate times, with Mycroft and Sherlock even agreeing to wear ridiculous Christmas jumpers which a grinning Mr Holmes had sourced for them.

“Mother, if you insist on a schedule – which, as I have pointed out every year, you pronounce the American way and thus incorrectly for this country, which is highly irritating – you must stick to it. We were meant to start opening presents ten minutes ago.”

Despite Sherlock's claims that material objects meant nothing to him, he adored presents. He loved ripping open the paper and seeing what someone had gotten for him. Since he and John had started to make more money from cases, he'd enjoyed it all the more, because John hadn't had to uncomfortably apologise that his gifts were cheaper than what he'd received, nor had Sherlock had the discomfort of having over-spent from his fairly substantial family wealth.

“Calm down, Sherlock. Some people take time over food, especially food as phenomenal as your mother's.” Mr Holmes rested his head on his wife's shoulder, blissfully happy. He adored being surrounded by his family, with Greg and John having taken on the roles of surrogate sons in his mind years ago.

“Sherlock, it never fails to astonish me how incredibly infantile you are. Honestly, John, I don't know how you-” Mycroft's sharp, sarcastic words were cut off when Greg squeezed his arm tightly and whispered something into his ear, which made Mycroft blush deeply. Sherlock grinned privately to himself, before jiggling a little in his seat. _Finally_ , John and his father were finished eating.

* * *

 

“Thank you so much for the bath bombs, Mrs Holmes.” John grinned, smelling the pink and green balls and sighing slightly at how good they smelt. Many men may have felt that it was an affront to their manliness to bathe with pink, flowery smelling paraphernalia, but whenever he got a funny look or comment he merely pointed out how comfortable he had to be with his manliness to be able to use such items without defending himself.

“I made them myself! The soaps, too.”

True to form, Sherlock had ripped open his presents in a frenzy, only stopping to give Mycroft a withering look when he opened his gift and found a magnifying glass and a deerstalker. Mr and Mrs Holmes waited until the 'children' were finished opening before starting on their own, just as they had when they really were children and even Mycroft couldn't wait to open his presents. Suddenly, a caw of laughter came from Greg, causing everyone to look at him. He was holding a leather book and laughing so hard that it was almost silent, staring at the page. Mycroft leaned over his shoulder to peer at the page and groaned theatrically.

“Mother!”

“Actually, it was me.” Mr Holmes smiled. “John has one of Sherlock, too.”

“What is it?” Sherlock demanded, staring at the remainder of John's still-wrapped presents as if he could see right through the glossy red paper and green ribbons and into whatever was inside.

“Baby photographs!” Greg exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes as he laughed and laughed. Turning a page, his laughter started afresh, and Mycroft leant across to snap the book shut. Greg swooped it away, and stepped over Mycroft's legs to show John, clutching at his stomach with laughter.

“Don't you _dare_ show them!” Mycroft growled, grabbing at the back of Greg's jumper. Greg ignored it and thrust the photograph at John, who also began to giggle. There was Mycroft, aged two or three, stood naked in the door of a treehouse. Underneath, Mr Holmes had labelled ' _Showing us the YMCA!_ '.

“Was he _really_ doing the YMCA?” Greg managed to choke out, clutching at John for support in his laughter-weakened state. Mrs Holmes laughed, her shoulders rolling, her skin wrinkling further.

“He used to do it all the time, bless him, he was a little show off as a toddler!”

Mycroft buried his face in his hands while Sherlock began to convulse with laughter, joining the already hysterical Greg and John. Mr Holmes looked slightly bewildered.

“I don't really see that it's that funny.”

That set them off even more.

* * *

 

Late the next day, after numerous feasts, laughs and awkward moments, it was time for the adult children to leave. John hugged Mr and Mrs Holmes in turn, his arms tightly around them.

“Thank you so much.” he said, “This has been one of the best Christmasses of my life.”

Greg felt similar emotions. “You're both truly wonderful parents. I can't _imagine_ how you managed to create Mycroft, or Sherlock for that matter.”

Mr and Mrs Holmes became rather misty-eyed at the endorsement from their son-in-laws, and each man received another two tight hugs. Behind them, Mycroft and Sherlock stood together, leant against the wall.

“Why did we pick such _human_ people?” Mycroft suddenly asked, staring at his boyfriend with a mixture of bewilderment and pride. Sherlock shrugged, fingering a cigarette in his pocket that he was desperate to smoke.

“I haven't the faintest idea.”

 


End file.
